


As long as you're dancing

by anonissue



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teachers, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, all of the possible hand-waving, rookies/AHL players as students
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 14:37:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8988076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonissue/pseuds/anonissue
Summary: P.K. settles in as the new guy on the faculty, hits on the grumpy Geography teacher, and bakes cookies -- although not necessarily in that order. Carey find himself reluctantly charmed.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oops_ohdear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oops_ohdear/gifts).



> A/N: A quick note on language -- it's reasonable to assume that the boys in the fic speak some kind of Canadian French-English jumble most of the time, and that the teachers understand it. The teachers themselves are a mix of Anglophones, Allophones, and Francophones, but my terrible French would've been a nightmare to type out, so unless someone is being particularly rude, or a particular turn of phrase seemed important to the text, I've written everything in English, even if in reality it might've been spoken in French.
> 
> This would never have gotten written if it weren't for the Beach Boys' "Help Me Rhonda" and my main babe Pris who stayed up way too late to see me through to the other side.
> 
> All remaining errors are my own, and I'll work to fix them as I notice them.

The start of the Fall semester always feels sluggish, feels slow -- like something crawling into a hole to die in peace. Carey’s not at the point of sighing as he considers the schoolwork in front of him, but, in a moment of weakness, he’ll admit he kind of wants to.

 

It’s early for lunch, and at the moment, Carey has the relative luxury of having the calm of the faculty lounge mostly to himself; a few people are coming and going, checking mailboxes, re-upping coffee, but no one’s presence is demanding enough to pull his attention away from his food and afternoon prep-work.

 

At least, not until:

 

“Fridays are honestly the worst,” is the only warning Carey gets before someone else is suddenly and immediately occupying the chair to his right.

 

“I mean, I know the common consensus is that Mondays are the drag-ass day of the week, but the common consensus doesn’t have to deal with eighty rowdy teenage boys that can smell weekend freedom like a pack of parolees who’ve just been delivered sudden reprieve from a life sentence.”

 

That’s enough to have Carey slow down his chewing and lift his eyes from the slide notes for his afternoon’s lecture on arctic ecosystems. The man is as vivacious in his body language as he is in his speech;although he’s maybe only said a handful of words in Carey’s presence, Carey is left with the overwhelming impression that the energy rolling off the guy is pretty par for the course. It’s almost startling -- not just that he’s talking with his whole body, but the fact that every fiber of Carey’s being actually wants to pay attention to what he’s saying.

 

“You don’t agree?” The guy arches an eyebrow, maintaining studious eye contact while unpacking what looks like microwaved leftovers from  _ Frite Alors _ , if the smell is any indication.

 

Carey catches himself surprised at being so directly engaged, stumbles a bit before figuring out how to answer.

 

“I -- uh, I guess it depends on your definition of the worst,” Carey shrugs. “Mondays, they’re all maudlin about the weekend not having been longer, Fridays, they’ve checked out before first bell at 8am -- already planning their Friday nights. Either way, nobody’s paying attention.”

 

“Eh, fair -- but I’m still convinced,” the other man says as he begins the multitask of picking at his fries, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “It’s easier to assuage regret then it is to dampen anticipation.”

 

“That’s just semantics --”

 

“For real, dude? It’s more than just semantics,” the man scoffs around a mouthful of fries. “We have a scholarly duty to -- I see you laughing at me, I’m not fucking around man, seriously --”

 

Carey’s not, actually, laughing at him, but it’s possible he’s well on his way to smiling incredulously at the guy. “A scholarly duty.”

 

“A  _ sacred _ scholarly duty to instill a passion for learning in our students, sufficient to wipe away any regrets at only having a 48 hours away from this most sacred hall of learning.”

 

“You,” Carey manages, breaking eye contact, and smiling? Actually smiling? That’s -- huh. “Are full of shit.”

 

“Probably,” the man admits, before dumping a healthy portion of his lunch onto Carey’s dwindling plate of salad. “Help me finish this.”

 

“I don’t take poutine from strangers.”

 

“PK,” the man says, grinning. He’s attractive, but Carey’s already decided to not let himself think about it. “I’m the new English LA teacher.”

 

“Carey,” Carey responds, poking at the offending mound of cheese curds and grease somewhat dubiously.

 

“Oh, so you’re the geography teacher I was warned to avoid.”

 

“It’s not like I fucking bite,” Carey says mildly, studiously refusing to afford PK any more of his attention in an attempt at salvaging the remains of his personal boundaries.

 

PK bumps his shoulder into Carey despite the sudden coolness of tone. “I probably wouldn’t even mind if you did.”

 

Carey doesn’t know what to do with that, so he does nothing but start to eat the poutine. He knows he’s making a face -- he’d die before admitting the gravy-soaked fries are still pretty good despite being left-overs, but they kind of are.

 

*

 

“Less obvious, however, are what we’re going to call the secondary effects of regional temperature increases. Can anyone list some for me?” Carey sighs as he clicks onto the next slide in his presentation.

 

He’s never really been one to enjoy presentations, both as a teacher and a student, but there’s only so much of what he has to cover in the boys’ geography class that he can make hands-on. Carey does try though, tries to get every level of his classes out of the building and interacting with living examples of the local ecology and populations he’s asking them to study in class. He’s notorious to Therrien and the rest of the school board for running over his field-trip budget, has even funded extra trips out of pocket before, but he’s allowed to get away with it because his classes produce more 6s and 7s when sitting for the IB than practically any other subject group at the school.

 

That considered though, the tangible effects of climate change on wildlife patterns and the hunting/fishing industry in the arctic isn’t something Carey can exactly show his kids on a simple day trip.

 

Carey scans the room and only spots two people sleeping -- he knows McDavid’s been run-over with hockey practice schedules lately, and Eichel, if he were awake, wouldn’t be doing anything but distracting other students -- and decides to count it as a victory. He ignores Bissonnette’s raised hand and disappointed cursing when he calls on the boy behind him instead.

 

“Hall?”

 

“Thinning of the ice?”

 

“OK, good. What other environmental systems would the thinning of the Arctic ice affect and why?”

 

“Well -- the average water temperature probably winds up increasing? Because the ice and snow usually serve to reflect sunlight and keep the overall temperature cooler, so uh --” Hall grimaces, scratching at the back of his head, making a display of thinking it through.

 

Carey switches the slides over to show pictures of what Hall’s describing, including some with industry-related clues -- fishing boats pulling up empty nets while sailing through a latticework of cracked ice.

 

Carey’s distracted, though, by sudden movement in his periphery near the door. He thinks maybe one of the assholes who tend to sit near the door screwed up passing a note or threw something across the arc of light spilling into the darkened classroom from the windowed door, but --

 

It’s PK, shifting himself from one side of the window to the other, looking on with something between curiosity and amusement, eyes catching Carey’s as he looks over at the door. 

 

Carey raises his eyebrows in a clear question, causing PK to grin like a crazy person and wave.

 

“Mr. P?”

 

Carey jerks his head back around, feeling like he’s been caught out. Hall looks unsure of himself.

 

“Sorry Taylor, can you repeat the last thing you said?”

 

“Uh, I was saying, like, fish migration would be affected, which in turn would screw up the hunting patterns of area predators and human fishing and hunting industry.”

 

“Yep, those are definitely examples of secondary effects -- although the fishing/hunting implications and fauna migration due to lack of a food source verge on tertiary effects which we’ll discuss in a minute; can someone name other secondary effects apart from the thinning of the ice shelf?”

 

Carey doesn’t let himself glance over towards the door until he moves on to the next topic, but by the time he finally manages to look, PK is gone. 

 

*

 

It’s the second Wednesday of the semester, and like every second Wednesday of the month, that means a full faculty meeting during lunch.

 

Carey hates them about as much as the next person, feels itchy around the entire cabinet of the school’s administration, but Therrien keeps insisting it’s important for the board to actually meet face-to-face with the teachers once a month.

 

He gets there early enough that Patches ropes him into helping set up the tables into the round-table format preferred for the meetings with nothing more than a look and a small, chagrined quirk of the lips. Max’s ability to guilt everyone into doing right by each other goes unrivaled, and is largely responsible for his ongoing term as the faculty association’s president.   

 

“Any stragglers?” He asks Carey once they’re at five past the hour, and Carey scans the room, noticing PK slipping inside at the far door just in the knick of time.

 

“I mean, Gally’s not here yet -- you want I should sick Alex on him? New guy just got here, and Radulov’s out with his second years doing the thing in QC, so that should be everyone otherwise.”

 

“I’ll go get Chucky, you get PK settled.” Max claps him on the shoulder and heads off in the direction of the fridge before Carey can say anything else.

 

Carey rolls his eyes, resigning himself to whatever snarl of conversation PK’s going to ensconce him in as soon as he so much looks at him in greeting. He doesn’t even wind-up having to search the man out, as he practically hip checks Carey in an effort to get to the last remaining chair on the far side of the room.

 

“Is this going to be as terrible as I think it’s going to be?” PK stage whispers to Carey as everyone settles themselves around the table, the suits all looking varying degrees of politely bored as they clump together at the head of the room around where Therrien is perched.

 

“No,” Carey shrugs. “It’s going to be worse. But they’re also usually pretty short, since the board likes being here just about as much as we do.”

 

“Really? They’re not all over-eager and full of excellent suggestions on how us poor teachers can better do our jobs?”

 

“There was a lot of that the first year Therrien insisted on these meetings, but uh -- they were gently encouraged to stop doing that.”

 

“By whom?”

 

“Patches -- Pacioretty?” Carey corrects, wincing. “Max, he’s the head of the faculty association, probably the first person to introduce themselves to you --”

 

“Dude, I’ve been here two weeks, not including summer orientation; I know who Max is you jerk,” PK snorts, and kicks at Carey’s leg under the table.

 

“Yeah well, he and HR had a talk with the board. And now, it’s kind of devolved into a tense show-and-tell on both sides, but at least,” Carey concludes. “No one’s trying to tell each other how to do their jobs.”

 

“Wasn’t there an e-mail newsletter that went out the first --”

 

“That covered the exact same thing? Yep,” Carey grins, looking at PK.

 

“Awesome. Are we at least getting lunch out of the deal?”

 

“Of course they’re catered, are you fucking kidding me? Food’s the only reason anyone shows up to work on the second Wednesday of the month,” Carey mutters, looking over his shoulder at the sound of muffled cursing and the door closer to the kitchen opening.

 

Gally and Chucky are hauling in bags of bagels along with trays of smoked fish and various sliced crudités, Brendan trying to wipe his face free of the last few straggling sesame seeds and fooling exactly no one. 

 

Once the food is distributed fairly evenly, the coffee poured, the meeting itself blessedly gets underway -- and it’s about as painfully bland as Carey expects it to be. Therrien bumbles his way through the budget adjustments from the board, clearing his throat and taking a long drink from his mug before beginning the faculty-oriented portion of the meeting. He gestures kind of vaguely at PK without actually looking at him, before speaking again.

 

“This is Pernell Subban, I’m sure most of you in student-facing positions have already had the opportunity to meet him now that we’re two weeks into the school year --”

 

“Pernell?” Carey mouths at PK, eyebrows raised, who rolls his eyes, and interjects just as quickly waving at the table in round:

 

“Please call me PK, it’s less of a mouthful.”

 

Therrien frowns at the interruption. “I’ll let you introduce yourself in a minute. Pernell comes to us out of a necessity to fill the English department vacancy left by Sheldon Souray after his sudden resignation over the summer. Although he doesn’t have much of a history of English instruction for the Baccalaureate curriculum, he was enthusiastically recommended by the board for his, ah -- unique background and teaching strategies. As you all know, our Literature and Language scores, especially for HL, have suffered compared to regional standards over the last five years, the hope is that Mr. Subban can bring something…”

 

Therrien scrunches up his nose, seeming to expend great effort on choice of word before finishing: “... unique. To the table. Mr. Subban?”

 

Carey catches himself frowning severely enough to pull at where he’d cracked his lip earlier in the morning, he darts his tongue out to check for blood, before fishing a tissue out of his pocket to dab at it. PK, to his credit, keeps his smile easy before scooting his chair into the table and talking.

 

“Monsieur Therrien and the rest of the board do me the service of their faith by hiring me on such short notice, and I’m looking forward to the challenge of working with the boys here. What I lack in formal experience with this type of program, I’m hoping to make up for with enthusiasm and patience. You’ve all been nothing but welcoming so far, and it’s been a great start to the year.”

 

“We’re really looking forward to what you have to offer, PK,” says one of the suits to Therrien’s left, drawing quite a few pairs of eyes.

 

The board doesn’t often have a lot to say, and the timing -- especially after Therrien’s less-than-warm introduction, is clearly deliberate. Bergevin? Carey thinks, dredging up the name to match the mischievous cut of the man’s face. The vice-president of the board,  if he recalls correctly. And if the board more-or-less forced PK’s hire, it would explain Therrien’s sour disposition towards the English teacher despite his barely having any time on the job to truly justify Therrien’s dislike.

 

PK nods his head in thanks, and then sits back, allowing the attention of the meeting to continue on to the rest of the faculty report. Carey waits until enough of the room’s attention is elsewhere before leaning into PK.

 

“Therrien’s an asshole,” Carey says, quietly.

 

“No shit,” PK replies in an equally hushed tone, face still in an easy smile.

 

“Just don’t take it personally is all.” Carey knocks his knee into PK’s before he can think the better of it.

 

PK’s grin crinkles into something a little more genuine at the edges, and Carey can feel himself relax a little -- some of the errant irritation from the meeting seeping out of his body -- in response.

 

*

 

Weekends are sacred in that Carey for the most part refuses to do anything even vaguely work related until Sunday afternoons. It’s Saturday, and Saturdays are for himself.

 

So it’s with an amused sense of reluctance he finds himself in front of his aging computer. It’s old, like, really truly old, not just next-end old the way some of his students will complain about still having an iPhone 5. It’s an ugly, wired gray lump that takes up the most neglected corner of his downstairs office; it’s still running Windows 2000, and it was only recently that Carey even bothered to switch web browsers, mostly in response to Radu’s abject horror that he was still using Internet Explorer, and in an honest effort to avoid ever having to sit through another lecture on why he should give a shit about internet security protocols.

 

His sister had signed him up for some dating website last month, irritated at their mother’s persistent questioning over Carey’s lack of lovelife and no longer willing to run interference unless Carey conceded to making an effort on his end despite insisting that he was perfectly fine without having to deal with someone being constantly upset at his forgetting pointless anniversaries and terrible texting etiquette.

 

“Just try, Carey,” Kayla had groused, right before the school year had started. “Getting laid regularly is worth the effort, I promise you.”

 

“Jesus, have you read these questions? And also, ew,” Carey had sighed. “Please never talk about me getting laid ever again.”

 

“Yeah, I have, and did you know, those questions let you signpost your weird obsession with Hank Williams the Third so that absolutely no one is surprised by your terrible taste in music the morning after.”

 

“I’m hanging up now,” he’d said and promptly done so to the sound of his sister cackling. She’d texted him about setting it up this morning, which Carey assumed meant that his mother had probably said something to her  _ again _ , and well.

 

Fuck it. Carey sighs, wondering how many of these idiotic questions he has to answer before whatever algorithm will actually start giving him supposed “matches.” After finishing 50 of them, the website informs him that he’s now capable of achieving as high as 94.2% cross-compatibility with some other ill-fated idiot on this website, and he decides that’s good enough. He’s itchy to be done with the whole weirdly judgmental process of declaring whether or not he thinks he’s “smarter than most people,” or “strongly prefers to date people of the same race/ethnic background” what the hell, or if “abortion is an option for him, personally, in the case of accidental pregnancy” which isn’t even a relevant fucking question for a gay man, good job algorithm. He switches over to the only slightly less weirdly judgmental process of browsing for potential matches by profile picture, and while yeah, some of these guys do absolutely have nice abs, the entire process leaves Carey feeling drained.

 

All in all, Carey’s come to the conclusion it’s a pretty terrible way to spend his Saturday. He backs out to his profile, takes a picture of it, and sends the picture without commentary to Kayla via text message.

 

It takes a minute or two, but he gets back:  _ oh thank god, I’ll tell mom  _ to which Carey furiously types:  _ do not show her the profile Kayla, I swear to god I’ll fly to Kelowna just to kick your ass. _

 

_ I said I’d tell her, not show her dummy, you can unclench now  _ she writes back, much faster this time and Carey stops biting at his lip, relaxing a little. 

 

He glances back up, as a little notification pops up informing him username HabsFanFromOntario has just visited his profile, and Carey clicks on it -- which brings him to the dude’s full user profile, and well. He’s a surprisingly handsome black guy, great lips, and a smile that reminds him of… something. Someone, maybe, Carey frowns trying to think of what or who. Clicks through his pictures, glances down to read his profile, which -- unfortunately for him -- just reads “can’t ever be bothered to fill these out, hmu if u d2f” which causes Carey’s mouth to flatten out into a hard line and close out of the browser window all together.

 

He leans back in the desk chair, glancing at the leaves on the tree right outside his window -- they’re already a blood red with the last kiss of autumn, and just about ready to fall. Carey lets his mind wander until it’s kind of blank and fuzzy, a melting pot of the week behind him without really hooking too hard on one particular moment or memory until that smile he couldn’t place is sitting on PK’s face as Carey bumps their knees together at the faculty meeting. Carey twists back and forth in his seat, his eyes skating back over to the computer screen, not really sure of what he’s going to do until he has a browser window open to Google and is typing in PK’s name.

 

And there’s more that comes up than Carey expected, really -- community awards, and a whole article feature by the Toronto Star on this young U of T grad that’s revitalizing youth prison educational systems and doing outreach to better their communal libraries, really trying to make sure the boys get an accessible and relevant education.

 

Carey reads through until there’s nothing more for him to find, and files it away quietly, all of it just adding to the mounting curiosity and begrudging fascination he has for his new colleague. It’s easy to see from the pictures in the articles that PK’s connection to the kids is real; it’s practically a tangible thing that jumps off the page, without needing words to fortify its existence. He really doesn’t seem the type to give up a project like that to come and teach at a high-end international school in completely different province, and Carey wonders, carefully, if there’s another story there that isn’t being told. If it’s something that would even be ok to ask about, if Carey could ever figure out how to start that conversation with PK.

 

His phone dings again, drawing him out of his thoughts. He picks it up off the desk to look at it, and it’s Kayla again:  _ see anything that catches your eye yet _

 

Carey types back:  _ nope _ and shuts the computer off without further thought.

 

*

 

There’s been a new classroom building in the works, supposedly, for years now, but the meanwhile reality is that teachers have to share classrooms. Carey doesn’t mind it, they all still get their own offices, and really -- he only winds up using two different rooms, shares them with the same three teachers. There’s a whole system worked out that makes the shared space into something cohesive, something that belongs to all three of them equally and cohesively.

 

Brendan’s coffee mug sits next to Beau’s potted Japanese Maple -- which Carey remembers to water because no one else will -- and in return, they both let Carey manage and organize the drawers of notepads and whiteout and pens to his heart’s content.

 

So when Carey’s legitimately taking his first step into the larger classroom, just as Gally crashes into him in pushing him out of the way with a few muttered apologies and a --

 

“I’ll be just a second, eh?”

 

Carey blinks, but isn’t really surprised so much as startled from the jostling physical contact. By the time he collects himself and continues into the classroom, Hurricane Gallagher is on its way back out to sea, and he and Brendan almost run into each other again -- although, this time, Carey is prepared and deftly sidesteps him. Still, somehow, he’s not quick enough though to dodge the overenthusiastic and stinging slap of Brendan’s open palm against his back as he backs his way out of the room with a cheeky salute. The degree of immunity the man has built up against Carey’s most withering stare should be alarming, but Carey has been lazy enough in following through on his threats that if he has a reputation of being more bark than bite amongst the faculty these days, that’s no one’s fault but his own.

 

The bell rings, and Carey notices the room’s only about half-full -- classes after lunch are always a little slow to get underway, and there’s not a whole lot on the schedule today other than to go over a few case studies and hand back papers.

 

It takes till about fifteen after the hour before everyone’s in their seats, and Carey’s just starting to pass back said papers when the door to his classroom opens yet again, and it’s PK looking a little flustered, not bothering to knock.

 

“I need to use your pencil sharpener,” he says without preamble.

 

“Why, what’s wrong with yours?” Carey asks.

 

“It’s,” PK sighs. “Missing.”

 

“The pencil sharpener that’s bolted to your classroom wall is missing,” Carey says, inflection making it a statement, but --

 

“Tricky thing about screws is that you can actually unscrew them and steal the thing they were securing,” PK says while sidling up to Carey and taking a peek at the papers he’s holding.

 

Carey fights the urge to flip them face down on his desk.

 

“ _ Puns are not, in fact, as funny as you think they are Paul _ ,” PK reads aloud the red handwritten note from the top-most paper and thankfully doesn’t also read out Paul’s 3/7 grade to the room. “I’m gonna have to disagree with you on that one, Mr. P -- puns are hilarious.”

 

“Not when you use them in profound abundance and poor taste,” Carey smiles tightly, sitting down and no longer resisting the inclination to remove the papers from PK’s line of sight. “You know, I should actually have a bunch of pre-sharpened pencils in my desk -- hold on.” 

 

Carey pulls open the bottom drawer where there should be a green pencil case of pre-sharpened no. 2 pencils. He takes the pouch out and hands them to PK. “Here.”

 

PK opens the pouch and stares at its contents a minute, before fishing a pencil out and showing it to Carey. It’s a virgin pencil -- top flat, and blunter than hammer. Carey grinds his teeth.

 

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

 

“Nope,” PK laughs. “And before you ask, yes, they’re all like that.”

 

“I wasn’t going to ask that, actually,” Carey snatches the case back. “Seeing as I sharpened all of these yesterday.”

 

“Mr. Gallagher swapped out a case that looked a lot like that one when he was in here just before,” a student -- Eichel, why is Carey not surprised at all -- says with a lazy grin.

 

“Did he now,” Carey says, before looking at PK. “And I don’t supposed Mr. Gallagher paid your classroom a visit before you found yourself short a pencil sharpener?”

 

“He teaches his Modern History class in my classroom three times a week,” PK confirms. “Right before lunch.”

 

“Jesus,” Carey mutters. “Fine, use mine. I don’t care.”

 

“You’re a peach,” PK smiles, which -- like all his other smiles -- takes over his entire face and takes no prisoners. Carey looks away first, and begins to teach, ignoring the sound of PK behind him -- even as he begins timing his sharpening suspiciously with the start of each of Carey’s sentences.

 

The fifth time he does it, Carey picks up the small squishy puck-shaped stress ball from his desk and throws it with exceptional accuracy behind him and at PK’s head, even as he continues to lecture. PK lets out an indignant yelp.

 

“Alright, alright, I’m almost done --”

 

“You’d better be,” Carey pauses to say pretending not to smile even as few students laugh. “Someone read the paragraph starting at page 142, McDavid -- maybe it’ll help you stay awake, eh? Starting with --  _ historically, the most important energy source worldwide was biomass fuel _ .”

 

McDavid groans, but does as he’s told.

 

*  

 

“It’s Friday,” is what Gally says when he sits across from Carey in the teacher’s lounge.

 

“I know it’s Friday,” Carey responds.

 

Because he does. Because he’s still a little annoyed that Gally’s been particularly irritating all week. Because there is honestly nothing remarkable about the fact that it’s presently Friday. Brendan pouts.

 

“Oh c’mon, you know what that means.”

 

“That it’s almost that time of the week when I don’t have to deal with you for two whole days?”

 

“We go out every Friday, dude,” Brendan says, like he’s being  _ patient _ with Carey, and it’s patronizing enough that Carey pauses in reviewing his class notes long enough to level Gally with a glare.

 

“No,  _ you _ go out every Friday,  _ dude _ ,” Carey corrects. “I go home and drink in better company.”

 

“You mean by yourself, like a loser.”

 

“Like I said,” Carey snorts, returning to the outline in front of him. “Better company.”

 

“Yeah well, you can do that any night of the week, tonight you’re coming out with us to Casa and drinking.”

 

Carey grimaces --  _ Casa del Popolo _ is loud and obnoxious and Montreal trendy in exactly the kind of way he hates. He doesn’t even look up to reply. “And why would I do that?”

 

“Because Peeksy’s coming, obvi.”

 

“So?”

 

“So, you like to get the measure of a man -- part of whatever weird control freak thing you’ve got going on, eh?” And Carey almost protests that, jarred a bit by his frank assessment of Carey’s character, but Gallagher’s steamrolling right on, grinning in the half-vacant way he does when he’s 100% sure he’s right about something. “And you don’t know quite what to make of Peeksy yet -- what better way to get to know him then out and when his guard is down?”

 

The chair next to Carey squeals as Alex pulls it out, deposits himself into it. “He’s right, you know.”

 

Carey looks at Alex, looks at Brendan who’s standing over both of them now, and then back again at Alex -- the very picture of calm counterpoint to the manic energy Brendan’s almost vibrating with as he rocks back and forth (involuntarily, Carey thinks, imagines he doesn’t even realize that he’s doing it, probably) on the balls of his feet.

 

“Maybe,” Carey allows.

 

Brendan almost falls backwards over the couch behind him whooping, “Pricer’s coming out tonight boys!” at the top of his lungs.

 

“Maybe isn’t  _ yes _ , you ass --” Carey mutters, and then rocks in his seat when Alex punches his shoulder.

 

“Yes it is,” Alex says, just as calmly as he’d said  _ he’s right _ , and gets up to go eat.

 

And, well -- Carey thinks. Maybe yes, just this once since PK is coming. What can it hurt?

 

*

 

Carey doesn’t plan to drink as much as he does, but he does.

 

They’re all squished up against each other in a booth,  _ Casa  _ as awful and as loud as Carey had been worried it would be, but it’s a lot harder to care three beers and five shots --

 

Six? Shots, as Gally hands him another one and Carey frowns.

 

“This is a lot,” Carey yells, and mildly amused at how sober he sounds.

 

“You got two years worth of missed Fridays to make up for, bud,” Gally yells right back, clinks his shot glass against Carey’s, and simultaneously hands a third glass to PK who’s been one long line of warm body boxing in Carey’s right side all night.

 

Vodka spills out of Gally’s glass and slops down Carey’s hand, and Carey debates just simply not drinking it, but Canadian drinking rules -- you can only call it quits on shots you buy yourself. Carey elects to stop thinking and just drink, sucking the remaining vodka off his skin, before trying to figure out why his entire side is vibrating. He looks sideways at PK, who’s giggling.

 

“Are you laughing at me?” Carey asks, making a face.

 

“No, well -- maybe, but mostly because you look like that vodka personally offended you,” PK explains, and then downs his own shot, doing an equally poor job of hiding a grimace.

 

“It’s shitty vodka,” Carey says incredulously, poking at PK’s face. “You think so too, I saw you.”

 

“It really is shitty vodka,” PK agrees, smacking his tongue as if that will somehow get rid of the after-taste.

 

Carey looks up, prepared to bitch at Brendan for buying them well vodka, but he’s doing something complicated with a red-faced Alex over at the bar involving a very busty blonde, Max is engrossed in his phone -- four full shots still lined up in front of him -- Beau’s face down on their table and snoring softly, and while the pile of jackets belonging to Peets and Pats are still balled up to his left, neither man is anywhere within Carey’s eyeline.

 

It’s sinking in that it’s just effectively him and PK, when PK asks him:

 

“So why natural sciences and geography?”

 

And Carey has a canned response to that, but suddenly finds himself talking and sliding a little too close to the truth. “Nature just… can’t help being exactly what it is, y’know? Guileless, bold, indifferent maybe, but accepting; I’m here you can’t change me, but.”

 

Carey pauses to burp, loudly, and feets the tips of his ears heating up at that, but whatever -- and PK isn’t laughing at him, so he takes that as a sign to continue.

 

“But, like -- how brazen it is makes it just easier to see yourself sometimes. I don’t know.”

 

Carey shrugs and looks at PK, who’s already watching him. He’s not smiling, but Carey the blush that started earlier hasn’t really left, and isn’t getting any better under PK’s considering gaze. Carey’s on the verge of breaking eye contact, when PK ropes him in by the shoulders and kisses his temple smacky and loud.

 

Carey snorts, and wipes at the side of his face, but PK’s arm hasn’t moved and for all it’s obviously a ridiculous gesture, it feels somehow sincere just the same. Of course, then PK ruins it by saying:

 

“I feel the same way about poetry, dude.”

 

“Oh fuck that,” Carey rolls his eyes so hard he can feel his eyes strain. “Poetry is just pretentious hot air metaphored into hyperbolic oblivion.”

 

“Are you calling me fucking pretentious?” PK looks aghast.

 

“Pretense requires critical thinking skills unimpaired by alcohol, so no, for the moment, I think you're safe on that count --” and Carey can feel that he’s grinning open and wide, and it feels terrifying and awful in a way that either means he doesn’t do it enough or is doing too much of it now -- and he's not sure which is true.

 

But here’s PK protesting and jostling him, and here’s thigh-to-thigh contact and the warmth of PK’s hands, and hell even if he’s not sure of what any of it means Carey knows that with PK it’s OK.

 

Tonight, anyway, it’s all somehow, wonderfully OK.

 

*

 

It’s not like Paul wanting to coax extra credit out of Carey is an unusual event, but it becomes an unusual event when PK barges into his office entirely unannounced covered in flour and wearing a half apron emblazoned with “ _ Meilleure Maman Cuisiner _ ” holding a plate full of cookies.

 

Carey realizes he’s stopped talking to Paul and is just staring with his mouth slightly open probably a little too late to not be damning.

 

Paul, on the other hand, has turned all the way around and is practically bouncing in his chair. “Are those the promised cookies?”

 

“They are indeed,” PK confirms. “I said if you guys averaged between 6 and 7, you’d get the world-famous Subban Family cookies, and I’m a man of my word.”

 

“ _ Crisse _ \--”

 

“OK, really,  _ language _ ,” Carey interjects.

 

Paul just laughs somewhat incredulously and half turns back to Carey. “No, Mr. P, you don’t understand, I just can’t believe we scored that high.”

 

That makes two of us, Carey manages not to say. Instead Carey just looks up at the advancing plate of baked goods and the man attached to them and says, “I’m busy, PK -- ”

 

“This’ll just take a second.”

 

“I’m with a student, PK --” 

 

“Nah Mr. P, PK said it’ll just take a second, I can wait,” Paul says, magnanimously.

 

Carey nods and looks at his desk. He keeps nodding so that he doesn’t throw something or maybe just scream.

 

“What can I do for you, PK?” he grinds out.

 

“Peanut-butter, chocolate cranberry, or snickerdoodle?” PK asks, gesturing at the cookies in his hand.

 

“Snicker-what?” Carey says, instead of literally anything else that might’ve encouraged PK to leave faster. He’s already shaking his head, trying to find the words to explain that he doesn’t have time for this, or even really for Bissonnette's half-assed attempts at fixing his grade (especially when Carey knows he’s bright enough to do extremely well if he’d just pay fucking attention in class), but suddenly somehow PK’s already in his personal space and saying: “On second thought, just open your mouth.”

 

“Uh, no -- why would I --” and with that, PK shoves a cookie into Carey’s mouth. “That’s the peanut butter,” he explains as Carey starts to chew in self-defense.

 

“I’m allergic to peanut butter,” Carey tries to mumble around the mound of cookie in his mouth.

 

PK puts on his best “bitch, please,” face and raises his eyebrows as high as he can get them before proclaiming: “You’re a liar, I had Patches check your faculty file before even coming up here with these babies.”

 

“Creepy.” Carey swallows, annoyed with himself for wanting a glass of milk.

 

“Now the chocolate --”

 

“I haven’t technically even consented to this taste test, what if they’re --” PK shoves another cookie into Carey’s mouth. “Poi’thoned.”

 

“You’re too cute to poison. Chew with your mouth closed, that’s gross.” Carey chews with his mouth open so crumbs fly everywhere just to be a brat. PK laughs, “you’re only screwing up your own desk, man.”

 

And well -- fuck, because PK is right; so Carey closes his mouth. PK graciously hands him the last cookie. “This is a snickerdoodle cookie. Do not ask wherefore the snickerdoodle, simply partake.” 

 

Carey cautiously bites into it, chews carefully, and then looks at Paul, who’s stuck looking somewhere between amused and terrified. Carey breaks off a piece of the unchewed cookie and hands it to him. “You try.”

 

Paul does. “Oh -- shit, man, this is good!”

 

“Damn right it’s good, it’s my mama’s recipe. Woman knows her cookies.” PK puffs a little bit at the thought. “Are they the winner then? because I need to make another two dozen of one of these, so.”

 

Carey nods, almost as enthusiastically as Paul. “The snicker-whatever is definitely the best one, make more of those.”

 

“Aye-aye, captain,” PK salutes, and lets himself back out of the office with waggle of the eyebrows.

“So,” Paul starts after eating the rest of the plate PK left behind clean. “Does this mean you’re cool with me making a 12-song mix-tape with the theme of global warming for extra credit, or nah?”

 

“Nah,” Carey says, emphatically, while licking his thumb and pressing it down into the little piles of crumbs on his desk. Once it’s coated, he sticks his finger in his mouth. “Not on your life, kid.”

 

Carey watches Paul deflate slowly into the chair and decides that despite the unexpected interruption, he feels better about life in general.

 

*

 

“You asked to see me?” Carey says, poking his head into Therrien’s office, because he had -- albeit before the weekend, but.

 

Some things, as far as Carey’s concerned, are just Monday tasks. Speaking to Therrien’s one of them. The man himself frowns slightly, and just as Carey’s convinced he’ll complain about Carey’s tardiness, he just waves at the seat in front of his desk and says: “Sit down.”

 

Carey sits.

 

“As of this week, I’m combining your theory of knowledge group with Subban’s.”

 

OK -- that’s odd. “Why?” Carey finds himself asking.

 

“Because,” Therrien sighs heavily, and for one fantastic moment Carey’s convinced that’s the only explanation he’s going to get. “I’ve gotten some concerned e-mails about the subject matter he’s choosing to cover in class, something about using popular paradigms that may or may not be honestly suitable ways of covering the required material. Honestly, Price, I’ve had my reservations about taking on Subban from the start.”

 

Carey watches the man sit back in his chair and struggles to keep his face as impassive as possible.

 

“Facts are, you’ve got the best ToK group for the third years two years running, now. I trust you to make sure Subban’s ideas are on the level, if you catch my drift,” Therrien concludes, rubbing at his eyes, before doing something with his face that Carey imagines he means to look chummy or conspiratorial.

 

It mostly just makes Carey want to vomit. “Yep, got it. Does he know, or do I get the pleasure of telling him?”

 

“I sent him an email twenty minutes ago,” Therrien says, waving once again in Carey’s general direction. “You can go.”

 

Carey can’t leave quickly enough.

 

*

 

Carey spends the better part of the afternoon avoiding PK, because in all likelihood -- like most of the faculty -- PK probably doesn’t check his faculty e-mail more than once every week or two. Even Therrien knows that’s how the faculty operate; e-mailing him the decision to undermine the autonomy of PK’s theory class was a cowardly fucking duck-out, no two ways about it.

 

Not that Carey’s doing much better himself, sitting in his office grading papers to avoid telling PK himself.

 

There’s a knock on his door, which already means it’s probably not a student, and Carey can also rule out about half the faculty who have no manners either -- leaving only a few people (most of whom are harmless) left as possibilities.

 

“Come in,” Carey shouts, and the door opens to reveal Petry, his fellow science faculty partner-in-crime.

 

Petry looks annoyed instead of his usual placid self, which Carey takes to mean he’s come to deliver shitty news.

 

“Look,” Peets begins. “I know I said let’s do combined class trip to the Biodome on Thursday, but I can’t do it -- I have a conference I was just invited to I can’t actually miss that runs Thursday night to Sunday afternoon in Ottawa.”

 

“Jesus Peets,” Carey interrupts, already unreasonably annoyed.

 

Jeff continues unperturbed. “but I asked PK if he wouldn’t mind chaperoning instead and he said that was fine, he’d be happy to.”

 

“He did?” is all Carey can manage to say.

 

“Well,” Petry cocks his head to the side. “His exact words were closer to something like --  _ it’d be an excellent start to the naturalist movement of poets I’d hope to cover for the next month _ \--”

 

“ _ Jesus _ Peets,” Carey says again, the inflection all weird and wrong. He covers his face with his hands.

 

Petry raises his eyebrows in a clear question. “Did you want me to find someone else? Because while that didn’t exactly sound like --  _ hey Peets, find someone else _ , it never hurts to be one-hundred percent with you, bud.”

 

“He’ll be fine,” Carey bites out.

 

“OK Pricey,” Peets nods in his direction, unfazed, hand reaching out to grip Carey’s office door. “And -- sorry, again.”

 

Carey waves at Jeff in parting as the other man leaves as graciously as he came.

 

*

 

The Biodome trip is a relative success, considering only five kids are late to the metro, Carey only has to put a stop to one instance of vandalism (Eichel, shock of all shocks again), and they collectively only lose one student during the whole trip (Paul) and PK manages to find him before Carey even has the time to process the situation for long enough to freak out (Paul gets caught up trying to flirt with the gift shop cashier at the botanical gardens -- PK patiently waits for him to strike out twice before hauling him off with apologies to the girl who has the patience of a saint).

 

The trip from the Berri-UQAM station feels a lot longer coming back than going, thanks in part to the fact that it’s cold and dark out, with light flurries because it’s 8 pm in late October and this is still Montreal.

 

Carey doesn’t mind it, though, watching PK horse around with the kids, who shriek and holler and scatter, only to regroup into smaller cells of huddling children, excitedly chittering over  _ les super sick pics they’ve just gotta post to Insta _ or whatever it is kids are fucking into these days.

 

“Jeeeesus, my hands are cold!” PK whines.

 

“ _ C’est pas chaud _ ,” Carey shrugs as the snowfall gets slightly heavier. PK snuggles into Carey, who shoves him back off of him before PK has the chance to worm his  _ cold bare hands _ under Carey’s shirt. “Fuck off!”

 

“Carey, c’mon, you’re like a space heater,” PK pleads, and Carey sighs disparagingly, pulling out two small sacks from either pocket and tossing them at PK -- who catches them, startled briefly into total compliance.

 

“Some of us came prepared,” Carey chastises.

 

“Are these hand-warmers?” PK asks, delighted. “You fucking Scout.”

 

“Yep,” Carey says. “All yours, since you didn’t bring gloves for reasons I can’t even begin to fathom considering the forecast has been for subzero temperatures and snow  _ all week _ \--”

 

“And sacrifice your own fingers?” PK says, voice suddenly close enough to Carey’s ear he can feel PK’s breath huffing damp and warm on his skin. “I think not.”

 

And that’s really all the warning Carey gets before PK shoves the handwarmers and  _ his hands _ right back into Carey’s pockets. He’s doing this weird little giggling goosestep to keep up with Carey as he walks while determinedly keeping his hands buried inside Carey’s coat pockets.

 

“You know,” Carey manages, sounding a lot calmer than he feels. “I have gloves. I’ll be fine if you just want to take them.”

 

“Nah,” PK grins, making goofy faces Carey can just barely see at some of the boys who are laughing and snapping pictures of them conjoined at the pocket. “This is much more my style.”

 

“OK weirdo,” Carey sighs.

 

PK snickers, but manages to tangle his hands up in Carey’s once he settles into the space of the other man’s pockets. They pass a few minutes in silence before Carey remembers he still hasn’t told PK about their theory classes being combined. “I, uh -- probably should’ve said something earlier,” Carey starts before trailing off.

 

“You’re pregnant,” PK gasps, and Carey starts sniggering outright, before elbowing PK despite him being practically draped over Carey’s back.

 

“I’m trying to be serious,” Carey tries again.

 

“Which is different from every other time how?” PK sighs.

 

“Therrien decided to combine your theory class and mind,” Carey finally just says, unable to figure out an easier way to say it. “I don’t -- I’m happy to let you do you, man, mine mostly already have projects, I’m sure yours do too --”

 

“Dude, it’s fine,” PK sighs, mildly exasperated.

 

“It’s really not,” Carey insists kind of flatly. “I’m mean, I doubt there’s anything to be done about it, but it’s not  _ fine _ , Peeks. I don’t think it’s fine.”

 

“I know,” PK grins a little, resting his chin on Carey’s shoulder. “Which is probably why it is.”

 

Carey huffs a little, but walks along, PK still touching him. He squeezes Carey’s hands, still wrapped up in his inside Carey’s pockets; Carey feels himself shiver at that and can’t even pretend to himself it’s because he’s cold.

 

*

 

And maybe it should come as less of a surprise than it does when it’s Saturday again, and instead of just spending his usual ten minutes under the shower at night, Carey’s mind starts wandering.

 

And it’s not really that Carey doesn’t jerk off on weekdays so much as it’s usually just as goal-driven as the rest of his daily routine -- no more memorable than brushing his teeth, or flossing, or cleaning between his toes. It’s just an extra five minutes in the shower before work, or sometimes right when he wakes up if he wakes up still half-dreaming and already thrusting lazy circles into the mattress underneath him. It’s just an extra step to help keep the creeping stress at bay. It’s not something he luxuriates in, or at least -- not often. There are bars he could go to, he could pick up, but tonight, this Saturday night, he really doesn’t want to.

 

Carey instead wants to think about specific sensations, memories, touches half-remembered -- he doesn’t want new, he wants -- hands at his wrists, teasing touches running like the water overhead down between the dip of his shoulders, along the lines of his ribs, over the swell of his ass. He wants the heat of a body pressed against him, the humidity of someone breathing heavy in his space, he wants --

 

\-- breath laughing along his neck, press of lips just above his ear, fingers threading between his and PK’s strong, sure grip, PK’s dark eyes heavy on his watching even as he smiles breathless --

 

Carey’s jerking forwards, coming with a sudden start all over his fingers, water washing everything away even as he realizes his mistake. He bangs his head against the glossy tile and mutters a heartfelt “ _ fuck _ ” which echoes back loudly onto no one’s ears but his own.

 

Stepping out of the shower after rinsing off again, Carey looks at the fogged up mirror and hesitates in wiping away the mess of condensation so he can see himself clearly. This doesn’t have to be a problem, he thinks. It’s not the first time he’s had thoughts about someone he shouldn’t -- he  _ can’t _ \-- want. Carey can deal with it, he knows how.

 

It just doesn’t help that he doesn’t particularly  _ want _ to.

 

* 

 

It’s one of a seemingly endless pile of Mondays, and Carey’s sitting at the desk of the room watching PK silently handle their combined theory group, and he’s only half-listening to what PK’s actually saying, if Carey’s being honest, because he’s actually caught up in how he’s expressing himself --

 

It’s the same sort of caught feeling in his chest that had his full attention the first day PK ever sat down next to him the lounge. 

 

PK’s talking about -- and Carey makes an effort to tune-in now, suddenly desperate to know what in the hell the man’s talking about that could move him to be so expressive -- 

 

OK find a book that deals with forbidden or impermissible affection between two people, because the point PK is trying to get across the concept “it’s better to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission;”

 

And when PK wanders back over to the desk where Carey is watching him with unusually heavy eyes, he says to him quietly enough that no one else can really hear him: “Easier to assuage regret than it is to dampen anticipation?”

 

And PK doesn’t so much smile as bite the edge of his lip, like for the first time he might be feeling something that would be too inappropriate to let show, and Carry just  _ cannot. _ He has to drop his eyes to stare at his hands, almost gasps when PK wraps his hand around his wrist, even though it’s just to bodily haul him up out of the chair.

 

“Your turn to teach this kids something, you lazy ass,” he says, his expression still half swallowed, his voice just a touch too deep.

 

Carey is in so much fucking trouble and whatever ability he thought he had to deal with feels like it deserts him entirely, leaving him feeling something close exposed and maybe a little afraid. But he’s been staring down crowds as a junior hockey player and kids in classrooms and animals in dirt rings before any of that for what feels like all his life, and Carey will not  _ do this _ in public. 

 

*

 

It’s the second Wednesday of November, and so yet another tedious, and ultimately pointless, faculty meeting has been called into session. Carey’s been making an effort to really work on maintaining something like socially acceptable personal space, and PK’s been letting him. It’s been both simultaneously exactly what he’s needed and not at all what he wants.

 

PK’s sitting next to him, which isn’t exactly unusual, even with the extra dash of coolness Carey’s been projecting at the other man over the last week or so. But the way PK is holding himself makes Carey feel twitchy and weird. His knee keeps bouncing, and PK keeps touching the corners of his mouth -- rubbing at them until they’re raw like corners can sometimes get in the colder months, chapped from the dry air. 

 

Carey’s discomfort percolates until he’s on the verge of snapping out a demand that PK tell him what’s wrong, but of course, that’s when Therrien decides to start the meeting.

 

“It’s November, which as we all know is when the 3rd Years sit for the IB; leaving March for the under-3s and below 24s,” he begins, as if a single person in the room doesn’t know exactly what’s happening in a week’s time.

 

Carey watches him stare directly at PK and clamps down on the seething urge to snarl openly at the man. PK stares blankly forwards, fingers digging into his mouth, knee jiggling away.

 

“There are, of course, certain expectations placed upon both you and the boys,” Therrien continues, either oblivious to the rising tension of the room or reveling in it. “And I don’t think a single one of you is unaware at this point in the semester exactly what those expectations are. You have the full trust and sympathies of the board in your struggle towards fostering academic excellence in the week to come.”

 

Carey decides, suddenly and quite clearly, that whatever pride he has concerning how foolish or inappropriate he may seem isn’t worth letting PK vibrate apart without at least trying to help. Carey reaches, slowly -- making sure to project every iota of his intentions -- to spread his hand over the top of PK’s knee, feels PK jerk a little under his hand but not specifically away from his touch. Carey squeezes lightly, then starts tracing circles over PK’s kneecap until the jiggling slows and finally stops. PK’s face doesn’t look any less shuttered, his fingers haven’t left his face, but he’s not worrying already broken skin the way he was earlier. Carey feels something ease in his throat, and is flooded with something awfully close to relief.

 

He keeps his hand on PK’s knee until the end the meeting, doesn’t miss the way PK’s hand covers his briefly before they’re all dismissed at the bell for the next period. Nothing more is said about it when they see each other later, and Carey’s not sure if that’s for the better or the worse.

 

*

 

Carey’s not bitter about how his juniors hockey career ended -- reconstructive surgery of the right knee, he barely limps now -- but there’s something bittersweet about it that keeps him from being regularly involved with the boys who play for the school hockey team; he doesn’t always have the heart for it the way Patches does.

 

But sometimes, especially when he needs to clear his head, Carey comes to the ice. He’ll come down to watch Patches coach the boys, let the cold clear everything out until the air stings at his eyes and everything seems bright and uncomplicated.

 

Max is great about it, actually, Carey can admit that. He doesn’t mind the silent spectatorship, doesn’t even mind when Carey feels like putting on skates and standing next to him on the ice -- when Carey’s in those moods, he’s also usually willing to help Patches set-up cones and supervise the drills.

 

Today’s one of those days.

 

Carey and Max are about two-thirds of the way through practice, maybe, when Carey catches Patches staring at him for a little too long, a little too hard, and Carey finally stops letting Max’s eyes itch his shoulderblades, asks a curt:

 

“What?” While cutting over to make eye contact with Max when Max doesn’t immediately reply.

 

“You know Therrien doesn’t like him, right?” Is what Patches does finally say, when he opens his mouth, and Carey feels his face twist up into something ugly.

 

“No, Carey, it could turn into a serious issue --”

 

“It won’t though,” Carey insists. “He’s great with the boys, they love him, they’re learning from him.”

 

“You know Therrien wants 25% of them to get a 6 or better on Lit and Language?” Max continues, ignoring the boys on the ice entirely in favor of giving Carey his full attention.

 

Carey rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, Therrien talks a lot of shit, we all know that.”

 

“Not all of us have that same shit written into our contracts of employment though, do we,” Max says, gently, like he’s just realized he might be the one to be first to break some terrible, life-altering news.

 

Carey looks incredulous. “As if PK would be dumb enough to sign something like that.”

 

Max just looks at him, looks away first when Carey just stares him straight in the face.

 

“Max,” Carey says, hating the way his voice sounds now. “Max how is that even legal?”

 

Max still can’t meet Carey’s eye. “He was already signed in before the teacher’s association could suggest arbitration of any kind, him and Bergevin set it all up to slid him in under Therrien’s nose, so now of course, Therrien’s twisted it like a noose around his neck --”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Carey mutters, feeling numb from more than just the cold. “It doesn’t matter Max, he’ll get the scores.”

 

“He might just,” Max laughs, not unkindly. “But if --”

 

“Not fucking but if, Max, he’ll get the scores. Have you ever -- his students  _ adore _ him, they listen to his  _ every _ word, I’ve never seen someone able to communicate as effectively -- ever -- with these boys as he’s been able to in half-a-year.” The fervor in Carey’s voice stops Max short.

 

“And that’s not even touching on his passion for the subject-matter. He’ll get the scores,” Carey bites out viciously, as Max finally manages to look him in the face again.

 

This time it’s Carey who has to look away.

 

“You need to be ready,” Patches says so quietly Carey almost misses that he’s started talking again over the sound of the hockey being played on the ice. “For the possibility. The boys will be blindsided enough if he’s fired, don’t let it happen to you.”

 

“I’m not a fucking kid, Max,” Carey hisses.

 

“I know,” Max says, voice even.

 

“And there’s nothing to get ready for,” Carey finishes, getting up into Max’s face. “He’ll get the scores.”

 

Max looks torn between trying to stay impassive and something that Carey hates -- something that looks like sympathy -- so Carey turns, face stony, and yells maybe a little too loudly when Berube fucks up and lets in a goal he could’ve easily circumvented by just staying in the fucking crease. Carey uses it as an excuse to skate away from Max, and Max lets him go.

 

*

 

Testing week arrives as quietly and as unassumingly as any other Monday.

 

Brendan, Alex, Max, Pateryn, and PK are all standing outside the auditorium as the kids from third year file in -- shaking hands, giving encouraging words -- a last stand against self-doubt before the wilderness of testing and essay-writing engulfs them.

 

Carey’s there too, although the boys don’t sit for his subjects until Wednesday. There’s nowhere else in the building he’d frankly rather be. 

 

Once everyone’s in the auditorium, Beaulieu -- one of the proctors for the day -- begins reading the exam instructions out loud, and a hush falls over both the crowd of children and the teachers watching them -- the semester’s efforts seeming suddenly, impossibly inadequate.

 

Carey decides to break his rules again, places a hand on the small of PK’s back before leaning into him and saying, “You did the absolute best you could.”

 

Carey means it, one-hundred percent. He’s had the privilege of seeing the man at work. PK doesn’t quite smile, but leans into Carey and says, “I posted the snickerdoodle recipe on the faculty lounge corkboard, you should give it a try sometime.”

 

Carey’s hand tightens involuntarily at that, fingers pressing into PK’s side -- but if PK minds, he doesn’t say anything. Beaulieu’s voice rings clear through the auditorium when he shouts “Begin!” and after that, there doesn’t seem much point to talking.

 

*

 

It’s New Year’s Eve, and fact of the matter is that Carey and PK haven’t really talked much over winter break. Carey’s not entirely sure of why he’s thinking of it now, but he is. The night is cold as fuck around him, he’s whiskey-warm, and it’s hard not to be introspective sitting on six inches of ice, fishing into a tiny sawed-out hole while nothing is biting or likely to bite for another two months at least.

 

There’s a cabin behind him he could retreat back to, it’s lights a warm and welcoming beacon in the otherwise bleak snowscape around the lake he’s currently sitting on. He’s had the cabin on Lake Bienville for the last five years, ever since he realized needed to move away from Kelowna. It took him longer to migrate towards the metropolitan hub of Montreal than it did a lakeside dump in rural Quebec, and sometimes he still needs to come out here just to get straight.

 

He’s got a torch lantern set-up, half a bottle of whiskey left that he’s working through, and content, if a little lonely, with thoughts. The first buzzing ring of his phone is so startling, he almost drops it right into the water in his fumbling attempts to get it out of his pocket. PK’s name is the one flashing across his caller ID, and Carey’s a little alarmed at first before he remembers it’s New Years and three AM at that, chances are PK’s drunk or butt-dialing him.

 

He picks up the call, after considering it -- but only for a moment -- and it’s PK’s boisterous “Priceyyyy!” that makes it very clear the call’s no accident. Carey grins as he places his fishing pole on the ice next to him.

 

“You’re drunk,” Carey declares, aware he’s slurring slightly himself.

 

“It’s New Years, no shit,” PK returns. “Speaking of, Happy -- that.”

 

“Happy New Years, PK.” Carey’s still smiling, but feels less ashamed of it out here where only the stars and the ice and the woods can see him.

 

It occurs to him, belatedly, that for all PK himself is being loud, there’s no buzzing noise of a bar or party behind his voice on the other end of the line. “I’d figured you’d be too busy ringing in the new year with friends, or maybe some admirer to give me a call, eh?”

 

“What?” and it’s funny how genuinely insulted PK sounds at the idea. “Never Pricey, who could come between our love?”

 

“Really?” Carey’s not really entirely sure why he’s pushing the issue, but here he is now and talking on auto-pilot. “No lucky lady to kiss in order to uphold a traditional Canadian new year’s celebration?”

 

PK laughs loud, which eventually dissolves into little hiccuping giggles, even though Carey is pretty sure he hasn’t said anything quite that funny. “I should be asking  _ you _ that, honestly, who out there actually managed to resist the allure of your damnable cheekbones on a night rife with an excuse to kiss people under the guise of upholding a traditional Canadian new year’s celebration?”

 

“Eh, didn’t really feel like meeting anyone new tonight,” Carey sighs. “What can I say.”

 

“You’re by yourself?” PK says, and sounds almost sad about it. “Jeeze.”

 

That annoys Carey in a way he’s not entirely sure is fair, so he tries to push the feeling out of his brain. “Yeah, lake fishing.”

 

PK snorts. “You’re a creature of habit -- definitely more Canadian than kissing, though.”

 

Carey shrugs, forgetting for a moment that PK isn’t here to see him. PK continues as if Carey’s silence was somehow an eloquent response. “I’m gonna miss that about you; fun trying to get you to change you know.”

 

The fondness is PK’s voice makes Carey’s whole chest and throat burn. “Well I’m glad it turns out one of us was getting something out of our conversations, and here I was personally beginning to find them terribly tedious --”

 

PK laughs -- and it’s the warm, genuine sound Carey first fell -- he freezes, suddenly, unsure if spooked by his train of thought or his brain finally catching up and processing PK’s words. “

 

“Wait, Peeks, what do you mean you’re gonna miss that about me?”

 

“Oh, shit shit, wait, I almost forgot, I called you because -- hey, I think found something even you might like--”

 

“PK,” Carey says again, and slowly, sitting up straight now with need to be understood clearly. “PK, why did you say you were going to miss me?” He knocks into his rod, which in turn spins into his whiskey bottle almost sending it careening across the ice before a deft tap of his foot saves it from spilling.

 

There’s a nervousness he hasn’t felt in a few weeks that’s starting to creep up his back again, ghosting along his spine. Carey almost feels like the world’s about to tilt sharply underfoot, like the ice he’s standing on -- and knows is inches thick -- might somehow suddenly crack.

 

“Would you  _ shut-up _ Carey, I’m trying to recite something --” and with that, PK clears his throat, and begins to speak in a tone meant to catch his attention.

 

“ _ You do not have to be good, you do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves--  _ pretty good for hyperbolic pretense, eh? _ ” _

 

Carey’s not sure when he started shaking, but he is -- he’s shivering and it’s not just from cold and it honestly doesn’t matter either way because there’s no one there to see it.

 

“PK,” he tries again, and Carey feels like his voice is cracked-open beyond salvaging. He feels like he can’t say enough, and like everything he could possibly say now would be far too much.

 

“Well fine,” PK says, his tone reverting to something that’s supposed to sound light-hearted and fails miserably. “If you insist on ruining my groove -- I got the IB scores back yesterday man, and well, Therrien had this thing about wanting the 25% of the class getting a 6 or higher.”

 

Carey wants to throw his phone into the water, wants to scream himself hoarse, wants to do anything to keep what he’s sure is true now from being true.

 

“Turns out only 19% of them did. It’s still a lot better than the 5% from last year, but y’know,” PK trails off.

 

And yeah, of course Carey does.

 

“It’s not good enough,” Carey hears himself say, almost dreamily as if he’s a thousand miles away from this conversation and traveling further by the second. He feels so small, a feeling magnified to terrible intensity by his surroundings.

 

“Yeah,” PK acknowledges after a second, suddenly sounding overwhelmingly exhausted. “Gonna be fired, Pricey. Was fun while it lasted, though, right?”

 

“Fun,” Carey echos.

 

“Should apologize to the boys, maybe; they deserved better from me --”

 

“Shut-up, PK,” Carey says without thinking. “Shut the fuck up, you did everything right, you did everything you could, you made things better -- actually  _ better _ \-- for those boys, so who gives a shit about some lousy standardized international aptitude exam?”

 

“Therrien, probably? Just a guess, though.”

 

“Fuck Therrien,” and Carey doesn’t mean to put that much feeling into it, but he just can’t help it.

 

“No thanks, not really my type,” PK yawns. “Doesn’t have razor-blade cheekbones, that’s kind of a must-have for me these days.”

 

Carey feels like his mouth is cotton, like there’s almost too much to talk around to even make any sound at all. By the time he finds the courage to try, PK’s not-so-soft snores are audible from the other end of the open phone line. Carey’s left watching his breath, too caught up in an unraveling hope to do more than stare at the stars and listen to PK breathe for longer than any sense of shame should allow.

 

*

 

He’s expecting a lot of things, honestly, but one thing Carey really isn’t expecting is most of the faculty picking their way through PK’s office, carefully packing up his things.

 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Carey asks, oddly calm despite the situation.

 

“Therrien already had a replacement for PK ready, apparently, and while we all had kind of guessed Therrien was going to fire him, he fired PK effective immediately,” Max says slowly, putting PK’s hodge-podge lending library books carefully into a box. “As in, this morning, although I checked to make sure he is getting paid until the end of the term. Anyway, suffice it to say --” Max stops to laugh.

 

“Suffice it to say his first period class did not react well to the news,” Chucky continues for him. “After the way they behaved, Therrien’s claiming he’s too worried about what they might do if he lets PK back on school grounds--”

 

“That’s absurd,” Carey says.

 

“We all agree, but Therrien’s not budging, man,” Gally chimes in. “So we get to pack up his stuff.”

 

“Who’s his replacement?” Carey thinks to ask after a minute of watching his co-workers pack-up PK’s remains. Thinking of it like that really does solidify the funerary nature of the whole process, and it makes Carey feel nauseous.

 

“New guy’s in the lounge,” Gally shrugs. “Didn’t catch his name.”

 

“Don’t be an asshole,” Max starts now, the beginnings of true annoyance seeping into his voice. “It’s not his fault--”

 

“Yeah?” Gally says, dropping the box in his hands almost carelessly on PK’s desk, throwing his hands up and getting in Max’s face more that he should be if he’s not aiming to fight the man. “Well he certainly didn’t seem to have an issue stepping right into the vacancy, that’s for fucking sure.”

 

An actual argument starts, which Carey tunes out, instead fingering one of his pencils that PK was tricked into borrowing earlier in the year.

 

He picks it up, examines it as it being in PK’s possession this whole time might’ve somehow fundamentally changed it, and then pockets it and just walks out of the room. 

 

Carey hears his co-workers pause in their argument to call after him, voices raising in concerned protest, but Carey doesn’t slow down or turn around.

 

*

 

Carey thinks there might be moment here and now, when maybe he should do something -- maybe even reach out to PK -- but everything seems hazy and hopeless in a way things haven’t since he was 17 and feeling his knee literally come apart under him on the ice.

 

It doesn’t hurt the same, Carey realizes. It’s just as bad, though, he thinks idly, staring at his phone as he stands in front of the mirror in the faculty bathroom. He feels just as frozen, contorted into a rictus of despair, but it’s not clean the way his knee was, and he can keep this injury inside him secret and forever if he wants to.

 

He doesn’t ever have to admit it, he doesn’t ever have to heal from it, and Carey thinks that might just be be OK.

 

He stares at his phone some more, watches an alert pop-up signalling a message from Kayla he has no desire to read, and then pockets it again without calling anyone.

 

*

 

Carey’s in his office later, when there’s a knock at his door.

 

It’s Shea Weber -- the new English teacher’s name, as it turns out -- something Therrien had e-mailed out to everyone again using the e-mail system no one regularly checked over winter break.

 

Carey stares him down, knowing, willing him to understand his transgression while neither of them musters up the actual gumption to say anything. Weber is measuring him in awkward, if steady, gaze in return.

 

“So, you and I are going to have to work together,” is what Shea opens with, when he winds up speaking first.

 

“Pretty good chance we will, yes, seeing as we’re both teachers at the same school,” Carey responds snidely.

“No, I mean -- your theory group, it was also my predecessors. We’ll have to still teach them together, Therrien wouldn’t budge on my suggestion we split the students back into separate groups.”

 

Carey bites his lip and closes his eyes. “No of course he wouldn’t.”

 

“I’m also pretty sure the students hate me, so there’s that too.” 

 

_ Not just the students _ , Carey allows himself the luxury of thinking. “Why’d Therrien hire you?” is what he asks instead.

 

Weber blinks, raises his eyebrows. “Well he said the guy before me wasn’t able to get the kids’ scores up to academic snuff, and I have a history of get my previous students to do well on A1: Lit and Language.”

 

“Did he mention it wasn’t exactly a failure of teaching so much as the kids PK was handling having a history of underperforming?”

 

Shea looks a little consternated, “No, but I’m not that worried about --”

 

“I would be,” Carey interrupts, determined not raise his voice. “PK wasn’t the first to fail with them.”

 

“Maybe not, but none of them were me,” Shea shrugs. It’s not said with any particular ego, presented rather as dry fact.

 

Carey starts to find Shea’s unflappability a little irritating, and he has a sneaking suspicion that irritation will only find room to grow.

 

*

 

If their first joint theory of knowledge session is any kind of indication, Carey thinks Shea’s a braver man than he gave him credit for when he didn’t just throw his hands up and quit after his English class earlier this morning.

 

The questions from the sullen student-base turn into rapid-fire warfare when they see Carey come in with Shea.

 

“Where’s PK?” _“Mr. P, is PK really gone?”_ **“Why’d PK leave Mr. P?”**

 

“First off, he didn’t leave.” Carey can’t even imagine a world where PK would’ve voluntarily left students hanging like this . “He was fired.”

 

“How come?”

 

Carey feels odd trying to tip-toe this, but he’s not sure how honest he can be without making the students themselves feel guilty for the circumstances. He gets out: “he had certain contractual obligations --”

 

Before Shea cuts in with: “Your class average for all the English components on the IB wasn’t as high as your principal told him he needed to get it in order to stay employed.”

 

“How you gonna try and make this our fault?” Carey watches the lines of Paul’s body project nothing but pure aggression. It’s something he’s never seen from the boy, not even at his most defiant.

 

“It’s not your fault, it was his -- and he was fired for it,” Shea responds, frowning.

 

Bissonnette opens up his mouth and gets out a sole “ _ tabernac _ \--” before Carey decides interrupting him might be to the benefit of everyone in the room right now.

 

“You asked for the reason, he gave it to you.” Carey interjects, and Paul doesn’t so much settle as deflate for a moment.

 

“Are you telling me we really didn’t do any better?” And this time it’s McDavid asking, earnest and sounding small in the worst kind of way.

 

Shea takes it upon himself to answer again, which, Jesus, but Carey can’t play sheepdog and shepard here. “You did, actually -- 90% of you improved your grades, the 10% that didn’t were already scoring at a 5 or better, but the aim is to get a quarter of you to do more than just get better -- a quarter of you need to be the best.”

 

“Man, nobody even asked you a fucking question,” Paul snarls, getting up out of his chair, and Carey’s fucking done.

 

“Paul, sit down and shut up. You may not respect Mr. Weber --”

 

“ _ Nan? T’es-tu sûr? Osti d'épais de marde--  _ ” Carey bangs his fist on the desk in front of him and Paul stops speaking.

 

“--but the only person you’re disrespecting with your behavior right now is PK. Mr. Weber is your teacher now, like it or not, and, like it or not, you all are the legacy of PK’s efforts.” Carey can feel Shea’s eyes on him, the same as all the eyes of the students in the room. It feels like they’re all looking at him for the first time, and Carey hates how it makes his skin crawl. “If you think PK was the best teacher you’ve ever had, act like he  _ fucking _ taught you something.”

 

Carey breathes in and out, in -- holds in a bit, counts to ten. Reels back, sits down in his chair. Shea gives him a moment, still appearing as placidly calm as ever. Then: “They had break assignments, right?”

 

“Of course,” Carey grouses. “Hand your work to the far left, pass it up, McDavid bring them to me once you’ve collected all of them.”

 

*

 

Carey’s not honestly expecting Weber to want anything to do with him after that, but he’s wrong on several counts. When Carey realizes Weber’s following him as he stalks away from the classroom as quickly as feet will take him, Carey first figures it’ll be to chastise him for his behavior.

 

Carey knows it was less than professional, knows that it wasn’t thing an adult, a teacher, should’ve done, but the endless font of patience expected of people in their position isn’t quite as endless as Carey once thought, and being told that he should’ve behaved otherwise --

 

\-- it’s not something Carey thinks he has the heart to take.

 

When Shea grabs him by the arm, Carey can’t even rightly say if Shea’s been trying to get his attention by calling his name, but Carey whirls on the other man. He shifts his footing faster than most people give him credit for, escaping Shea’s grip easy.

 

The other man takes a few steps back, arms raised up in a placating gesture.

 

“I just wanted to say thanks, man,” Shea says. “That’s it.”

 

Carey blinks. “Thanks.”

 

“Yeah,” Shea says. “That was a ugly room. You didn’t have to stick up for me. Nobody did this morning, even though half the faculty probably heard the kids yelling.”

 

Carey’s not sure he would’ve this morning either, but he decides he doesn’t need to say that. Shea lowers his hands, and slowly walks backwards. “I’m gonna go now. See you tomorrow.”

 

Carey stares after him, frozen to the spot until Shea Weber disappears down an adjoining corridor. He lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding.

 

*

 

It’s a Thursday, and Petry’s doling out two portions of food -- one for himself, and one for Carey. He hands the plate off to Carey, who takes it, and then goes to sit, not saying anything as Peets sits next to him and the of them eat in the relative silence of the faculty lounge.

 

The mood of the room is significantly more subdued than it has been in a while.

 

Petry suddenly stops, fork half-raised to his mouth, before declaring: “You like him.”

 

Carey… panics. Carey panics, because he’s not sure if Petry means PK, but can’t think of who else he could mean otherwise, and Carey hadn’t thought that he’d been that obvious about his feelings for PK. Sure OK obviously, he likes the man, same as the rest of the faculty, same as the students for God’s sake, but --

 

“Uh,” Carey manages, eloquently, after a second of closed-loop thoughts.

 

“Weber, I mean. Or well, you don’t hate him.” Peets clarifies, and --

 

“Wait,  _ what _ ?”

 

“You haven’t actually complained about him once, not openly like Gally has, or passively through exclusion the way Chucky or Patches have.”

 

“They don’t have to teach with him, I do.”

 

“I know, but you’re not exactly gracious when you don’t like something.”

 

“Fuck you,” Carey says but it’s half hearted because Petry’s right.

 

They eat for a few moments more, before Carey let’s his fork drop with a small clatter. “I don’t like him, but he’s good. I can see why Therrien wanted him on the faculty. I understand why he’s a better fit, and maybe even the one to build off what PK taught them and get the job done.”

 

He looks at Petry, who’s looking back at him, chewing consideringly. “But I don’t like him, Peets. And he’s still terrible with the room.”

 

“You were too, once,” Jeff says, blithely. 

 

“I was never that bad, c’mon,” Carey scoffs.

 

Peets raises his eyebrows. “PK did work on more than just the kids, man.”

 

Carey finishes his food without further comment.

 

*

 

Carey’s at home, and it’s Saturday. He’s watching a marathon of  _ Life Below Zero _ , beer by his foot.

 

He’s not looking at the screen, though, he’s looking at his phone, which is open to PK’s contact page. Carey looks at it a little lost, like he’s maybe not sure what he’s going to do. Before he can decide against it, it presses send -- curses out loud -- and hangs-up after the first ring.

 

Carey tosses his phone into the pile of throw pillows on his couch. He goes back to watching the TV. He absolutely pretends not to check his phone for the rest of the night, checking to see if PK’s called him back or texted.

 

PK doesn’t.

 

*

 

Gally calls Carey, even though it’s a Sunday. Even though they’re not friends who call each other.

 

Brendan asks him, straight up: “Have you talked to him?”

 

Carey briefly debates pretending he doesn’t know who Brendan means, but decides the avoidance isn’t worth the effort. “Not since break, why have you?”

 

And it’s like Carey can feel Gally goggling at him through the phone. “What?” he asks, sounding slightly defensive.

 

“Dude, if Peeksy was gonna reach out to any of us, you gotta know it’d be you, eh?”

 

The  _ why would you say that _ sticks in Carey’s throat, because he knows -- maybe not entirely, but he knows -- but the fact that  _ other people _ apparently also know is enough to make him sweat despite the relative chill of his apartment.

 

*

 

Shea opens the door to Carey’s office without preamble, and it’s to let an annoyed looking Paul into the room.

 

Carey looks at Paul, who’s carrying a gift-wrapped bundle, and then looks at Shea -- who rolls his eyes, before saying to Paul in a clipped voice:

 

“You have ten minutes.”

 

And then closing the door leaving Paul alone with Carey.

 

Paul seems stuck staring at the door Weber just exited through, so eventually Carey finds it necessary to clear his throat, and almost winces when Paul jumps.

 

“Mr. Price --” and fuck, nobody’s called Carey that since the first few months he spent here. “I, uh, wanted to apologize. On behalf of all of us, we --”

 

“Did Mr. Weber tell you this was something you needed to do? Because it’s not, I get why you were angry.”

 

“No,” and that sounds a lot more like Paul’s usual crotch-irritant self that Carey relaxes a little. “No, we were assholes, dude. You deserve an apology, and well, so does PK. But that probably can’t happen here, so --”

 

And Paul thrusts forwards his package onto Carey’s desk. Carey looks a question at Paul, who shrugs.

 

“It’s a little something the rest of us put together, something to make up for the fact that we didn’t get a chance to say thanks, and well, y’know,” Paul pauses, mouth working, obviously searching for the right word. “Goodbye, I guess.”

 

“If anyone can get it to him, it’d be you, Mr. P,” Paul nods, like it’s not even a question. “You’re not mad, though?”

 

“Not at you, Paul,” Carey sighs.

 

“OK, good. And sorry, again,” Paul says, saluting, making a dash for the door.

 

Carey stares at the package on his desk, feeling like it contains a bomb, not a good-bye present from a bunch of high schoolers. He realizes, with startling clarity, that he has absolutely no idea how to find out where PK lives. It’s a problem that stumps him for an embarrassing amount of time before he remembers that Max, in fact, owes him a favor.

 

Carey figures this as good a time as any to cash it in.

  
  


*

 

Turns out PK lives in a super cute townhouse in Côte-Saint-Paul, which Carey wouldn’t have exactly expected, but the space itself screams PK.

 

Carey rings the doorbell, and PK, thankfully, answers the door.

He doesn’t quite smile. “How did you find out where I live?”

 

“I had Max’s wife, who’s the one that actually works in HR, pull your file,” Carey shrugs. “Gave her this whole sob story, she felt bad.”

 

“Creepy,” PK says, but it’s an echo of a conversation Carey and he had what feels like years ago, not an actual accusation.

 

“You gonna let me in?” Carey asks, truly unsure that PK will for a moment.

 

“You ask me that like I even have a choice,” PK sighs, and Carey doesn’t know what to do with but, but does step inside when PK sweeps a hand across the threshold and commands, dramatically: “ _ Entrez _ .”

 

He hands PK the present, and he examines it after closing the door behind them. “What is it?”

 

“I actually have no clue,” Carey admits. “But it’s from the boys.”

 

It turns out it’s some cheesy thing -- a scrap-book or whatever -- of everyone’s favorite line of verse from the semester’s worth of poetry PK had them study. It makes PK smile, a real smile -- one that makes Carey ache in return, in a way he hasn’t since New Year’s on the lake.

 

That smile, Carey thinks faintly, is an lethal weapon. It’s enough to make him gather his remaining courage and clear his throat. The noise dims PK’s smile a touch, pulls his eyes up from the book now sitting open in his lap.

 

“I almost forgot,” Carey starts, mouth suddenly dry. “I wanted to recite something for you the next time that I saw you, but it turns out, I didn’t -- we never --”

 

“Well you can now,” PK says, almost quietly for him, as if a louder acknowledgement might scare Carey away.

 

“How did it go,” Carey sighs to himself, and then begins, as best as he can recollect. “ _ Tell me about despair, yours, and I’ll tell you mine. Meanwhile, the world goes on. Meanwhile, the sun and the clear pebbles of rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile, the wild geese, high in the clear blue air, are heading home again  _ \-- I, shit, I always screw up this next part --”

 

And it’s not like Carey didn’t know PK had stood up, it’s not like Carey wasn’t watching him get right up into his space, it’s not as if PK’s fingers on Carey’s face now are a surprise, even if the soft traces of touch feel like little fires blazing across his skin.

 

Carey almost can’t take the way PK’s touching him carefully, reverently like he’s some kind of a marvel, when all Carey’s ever wanted is exactly this -- all of PK’s attention. Carey feels himself flushing with it, suddenly greedy for it, but Jesus Christ if he doesn’t have to finish this stupid fucking poem first, so he starts speaking again, even as his voice shakes:

 

“ _ \-- whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world calls to you like the geese -- harsh and exciting -- over and over announcing your place in the family of things. _ ”

 

PK is nuzzling Carey’s face now, dragging his nose along the line of Carey’s jaw, and it’s all Carey can do to gasp out: “ Was that wrong? I feel like that was wrong--”

 

“It was perfect,” PK says, before finally, thoroughly kissing him.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a quote accredited to poet Mary Oliver, and reads: "As long as you're dancing, you can break the rules. Sometimes breaking the rules is just extending the rules. Sometimes there are no rules."
> 
> I also thoroughly abuse her poem "Wild Geese" in this story.


End file.
